


Cursed Skin

by ghostybreads



Category: Original Work
Genre: BNHA OC, Implied abuse, Nightmare, character introspection, implied suicidal thoughts, it wont make much sense if you dont know him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 13:03:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19830802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostybreads/pseuds/ghostybreads
Summary: Shinobu's body was not his own. His breath was chained by his past, the ink on his skin and the clock on the wall. There was no way forward for a boy who couldn't take the first step.





	Cursed Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Uh yeah like i said if ur not from the rp group you won't have any clue whats going on, but for the few ppl that do read this: >:3c oops. 
> 
> pls keep in mind the warnings in the tags!

For someone once so comforted by the darkness, it had never felt so isolating. He looked around once, twice, blinking and taking in the hazy fog surrounding him. His hands turned in front of him, a simple butterfly sketched in ink on the back of his hand, but it didn't feel like he was in control. Everything was blurry, his vision narrowing in as the butterfly took a life of its own without his intention. 

The butterfly flew into the dark, the ink blending into the black background. For a moment, slowly, his fingers reached out to it, extending his arm and noticing the shape of a wolf sketched in blood. There was a sudden shriek, followed by the shattering of glass, Shinobu spun around to be greeted by his mother crawling backwards away from with with fear and tear filled eyes. 

"What have you done!" Another voice yelled from behind, as they were echoing in his head, he spun around to recognize the door of his childhood home and his father in the entrance. The door he longingly wanted to go through and leave (the door he woke up at night wishing he could walk back through). 

Anger pooled out of his father's skin, fists shaking with a rage that could never be controlled, that no great hero could stop or protect him from. Shinobu knew what came next. 

Closing his eyes and bracing himself, Shinobu fell. It was surely a long way to the ground, because as seconds passed, he never stopped falling. Fluttering his eyes open to the fluttering sound of the butterfly painted in ink coming back to him, among the sound of wind crashing against his ears and the windows of his high school flying up by him. He remembered the time, exactly halfway through second year, when he'd screamed as loud as he could at the rooftops and hung over the railing wondering when this horrible cycle would ever end. The metal of the railing anger his palm beckoned him forward, the long way down to the cement below calling him.

Was that really the only way? 

As he fell, the panic began to set in as he struggled against the weight of gravity, hugging himself in close as his entire body trembled and flailed. Just before the ground, hands from the shadows around him began to grip at his hand, claws tearing at the space where a butterfly had once been and ripping the skin. His classmates watched, some from the windows, and some from the ground, but he couldn't quite see their faces. Shinobu never looked at them properly or acknowledged them, and as a result, they all learnt to avert their case and turn away.

His gaze searched for help, white wings standing out against the shadowy ground turned and walked away. 

"You're a cursed child! All because you were born, this family… it all happened because of you!" 

The voice cracked through his eyes, and with a wavering shout he crashed into the ground. Shinobu's eyes flew open, frozen where he was with his mouth open and his hands gripping the bedsheet so hard his knuckles had turned white. His apartment was silent, dark apart from a strip of moonlight through the curtains illuminating the edge of his bed in a soft glow. 

The clock ticked, and time moved forward even the world slept in peace. Shinobu took a second to recover, pushing himself up against the wooden bedframe with a shaky, unsteady arm. He closed his eyes again, unable to bring himself to look at Nuggets while the bloody, mauled cuts in his shape were still burned into his mind. Bringing his hands to his face and sighing into them, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. 

Shinobu tried to stand, almost instantly wobbling and crashing into the wall as he slowly made his way over to the closet. He took a jumper with the longest sleeves and slipped it over his head, even when the heat was sweltering through the walls. Shinobu knew that was the jumper of defeat, a lifeline he clung to when there was nothing else. 

What else could he do? There was no one but him anymore, and he had no one but himself to blame. A small meow from the corner of his bed startled him, without thinking he moved his hands in front of him to protect himself, before seeing the small black beady eyes watching him. He huffed, quietly walking across the carpet, aware of every creak in his step and giving Oreo a small scratch on the head. 

Oreo leaned into his touch, and he was reminded that he wasn't as alone as he claimed. He had his tattoos, too. A pain blossomed in his palm, and he suddenly felt sick to his stomach as the reality of the nightmare kicked in. Shinobu opened the door with his other hand, running into the bathroom to find the bandages and wrap it up. Under his breath, he apologized, over and over again, even knowing the butterfly couldn't hear a word. 

His tattoos were his partners, and they- well, most, worked so hard for him and never hesitated to help when called upon. Yet, whenever attention was drawn to them, or he walked out of home with them exposed, Shinobu couldn't help feeling they were something dirty, something ugly to hide behind closed doors. After finishing wrapping up his hand as if it were a wound, he avoided meeting his own eyes in the mirror. 

Ignorance was bliss. Out of sight, out of mind. He didn't want to see what he already knew was there, a cowardly child trapped in the past, unable to move forward. The clock in his bedroom ticked again, but Shinobu didn't move, his bare feet were stuck against the bathroom tiles. The clock ticked, and he remembered white wings. 

He remembered feeling suspended in the air, watching as white wings walked out of reach. Shinobu couldn't do anything at all. More seconds passed until he was able to move again, though his body still didn't feel like his own, reality and dreams colliding until he couldn't tell what was real. He quietly went back into the bedroom, and on seeing Oreo fast asleep on the bed he pushed aside the curtains, unlocked the door and stepped out onto the small balcony. 

There was some of his clothes hanging on a rack, and a few pot plants hanging from the roof. Shinobu walked by them, standing on the tips of his toes and checking to make sure they were thriving. Taking care of his pot plants was an important hobby of his, one of his only hobbies outside of work, in fact. He had a natural tendency to care for things, kids and pot plants alike. (Apparently this didn't happen to include himself.) Regardless, it gave him some kind of purpose in the usual routine that quickly began to feel mindless and empty. 

Kinda sad, huh?

Shinobu wasn't unhappy with his life. He couldn't change his past or his trauma, and somehow he'd managed to strive through the worst and achieve his childhood dreams. He was living the life he'd fantasized about as a child. An alone, independent hero who saved kids and had a cat and lots of pot plants. He hadn't particularly needed friends or support, and along the way he'd even managed to pick up a strange set of relationships he'd almost call a family. That was more than enough for him. 

But it didn't stop the nagging feeling that something was missing, that there was a side to life full of laughter and… well, life, that he wasn't getting. It didn't stop the nagging feeling, like the cold air in his throat, that maybe he'd be happier if he hadn't left everyone behind and pushed everyone away. That maybe, with someone else by his side, he'd be able to keep walking forward. 

Shinobu leaned against the railing of the balcony, breathing out cold clouds, and he prepared to work, work, break down and work in the same cycle he'd never been able to escape. Like a puppet on a string with no control over his heavy limbs, he quietly shuffled one foot behind the other into his room. He slid the door closed behind him with cursed fingers, as the cursed hand of the clock ticked onwards.


End file.
